A Warrior and a Guide
by wordaddiction
Summary: Based on the post: Jehan is so exhausted that he confesses his feelings to Combeferre, but it is in that moment that the battle begins and Combeferre doesn't get a chance to respond. This follows Jehan's death scene in the book very closely, but illustrates what could have been.


There is something about the possibility of freedom and the even greater possibility of death that weighs heavily on the eyes. It's a bit surprising, really. One would think that the imminent danger would heighten the senses, cause blood to grow hot in the veins. Instead, it finds its victims curled in clusters about an erect barricade, ready to sleep away the horrors to come.

Jean Prouvaire was no exception. As the revolutionaries settled down for the night, save for Courfeyrac, who was on watch, he hummed quietly to himself and found a crevice between a couple of crates and a broken armchair. He leaned against one of the wooden boxes and sighed, looking about the camp. Grantaire was drinking lazily across the street, barely hiding his obvious fascination with the leader. Briefly, their eyes met and the artist promptly turned a particularly ravishing shade of scarlet. Enjolras seemed to pay no mind and went back to stacking the guns in a suitable pile. He seemed immune to exhaustion.

Jehan, being the romantic idealist that he was, mourned silently for the two. The rest of the amis knew about Grantaire's adoration, as it was extremely difficult not to notice, but none of them thought much on the idea of Enjolras reciprocating. It was tricky business, speaking about love with the leader. He simply waved it off as childish and unimportant, but Jean knew better. He caught the furtive glances, the slight rouge in his cheeks when he looked upon the drunkard. Jean was sure that there was hope for the two of them. Or perhaps, could have been hope, if the next day did not promise death so assuredly. And so he tilted his head sadly and looked away, hoping only that they enjoyed what little time they had together.

The thought sent his gaze in search of another; a tall, bespectacled man in a blue waist coat. It only took a moment to find him, leaning gently against the wall of a furniture shop and smoking a pipe. To anyone, it would have seemed almost normal, a young man enjoying a breath of fresh air and a bit of tobacco. It could have been anywhere, at any time, and it would be a pleasant sight. But this was not any time, or any place. And Combeferre only smoked when he was sad.

Jehan tugged longingly at his shirt sleeves. He wanted so desperately to stand, join the man and comfort him. Tell him that it would be alright, though they both knew it wouldn't be. Enfold himself around him and breathe in pure Combeferre for a while—just a while—until he set the pipe down and wrapped his arms around Jean, too. Even if it weren't for the crippling exhaustion that made the very idea of standing unthinkable, though, Jehan could never do it. There was something about the guide's levelheadedness that seemed incapable of being soothed, as he was the one who always did the soothing. The small poet wouldn't know the first thing about comforting a man like that.

For a moment, Jean let his eyelids droop shut, the chatter around him dulling to a murmur. The sleep felt so close, and so peaceful. He could so easily allow himself to fall into it, but he forced his eyes open. There was the depressing chance that he would wake up and have missed the last few hours of his and his friends' lives. So he tried desperately to wake up.

His attempts were so forced, however, that he hardly noticed the tall man move from the brick wall and perch himself on the edge of one of the crates.

"It's a strange night," Combeferre noted as he took a drag from the pipe. He held it down to a startled Jehan, who blinked rapidly at him before accepting the tobacco with a small smile.

"No stranger than we've been preparing for," he murmured.

Combeferre cast his gaze about the barricade, just as the poet had done earlier, and took a deep breath. "I think perhaps we could not have prepared ourselves for this, no matter how long the preparations prolonged,"

Jean nodded. "Death is no longer an idea," he whispered.

"And yet we are all still willing to die,"

Jehan looked up at him and returned the pipe. Combeferre was staring off into an apparent nothingness, but his lips were relaxed and his shoulders slumped. He rarely allowed himself such casualness, always being the one to stand straight and proud and with confidence. But the sky seemed to be withdrawing all of their norms tonight, and the brunette could be forgiven for his deviations from usual behavior.

"You're tired," Combeferre noted after a moment's silence as he looked down at Jehan, his lips curving into an affectionate smile.

"I'm afraid, even in the face of danger, I appear to still require my basic human needs," he replied softly.

"You should sleep, mon ami,"

"I think not," Jean stretched his back and leaned his head against the arm chair behind him. "Too little time,"

"You won't stand a chance if you're stumbling about, deprived of sleep tomorrow," Combeferre urged, nudging him gently with his foot.

"I won't stand a chance either way," The words dribbled from his mouth without thought censoring them first. Being a poet, the melancholy that often overcame Jehan was thick and inescapable, but he did not usually share it with the rest of the world. There was no room for sadness when so much of it existed already. Besides, it was better suited for parchment and pens, rather than ears that had happier things to hear. But his lips were different when he was tired, giving little warning to his brain before pulling words from him and presenting them to the nearest subject.

Combeferre watched him as he took a long drag from the pipe. His eyes flickered behind his glasses, and Jean was unsure if it was only his own fantasies that imagined them into concern.

"Of course you stand a chance. We all do,"

The shorter man bit his lip, wanting desperately to refrain from response. But after a few moments of silence, his tongue got the better of him. "'Ferre, I am small and I am weak. I could tell myself a hundred lies about survival but in the end, they will still only be lies. And I will still only be a poet with too many words and not enough paper," He ran a delicate hand through his ruffled hair and shut his eyes. If there were ever a time to speak the truth, he imagined it was now.

Suddenly, he felt a warm hand on his shoulder. He opened his eyes to find Combeferre leaning over and staring at him directly, jaw set in a stern manner, and hated himself for thinking about how perfectly shaped that jaw was. This was not the time for swooning. Or maybe it was the ideal time for swooning, he wasn't exactly sure anymore.

"Your size is not relevant. This is a fight of passion, and I know no one who harbors more passion than you,"

Jehan scoffed. "Enjolras is much more—"

"Enjolras is a fierce leader and I don't question his decisions for a moment. But you are so infested with feeling, I think perhaps you stole a bit from everyone and are keeping them for yourself," Combeferre cut him off and slipped his hand from his shoulder, leaning back. Jean immediately felt the absence and fought the urge to trace his fingers over the spot where the other's had just been.

"I'm not sure I'd do it, if I had the choice,"

"Then I'm thankful that you don't,"

The two sat in silence for a longer time than might be considered comfortable, but Jean, for once, could not find the words to reply. More and more, he felt his vision cloud and his head fog over with the idea of sleep. More often than once, his head drooped and rest grew ever closer. But he would always force his eyes open just in time, a testament to his will power.

"Why are you sad?" he mumbled eventually. Combeferre looked down at him, brow raised.

"I'm not sad,"

"You're smoking," he pointed out, waving at the pipe with little effort. "You smoke when you're sad,"

Combeferre opened his mouth as if to speak, but then glanced down at the tool in his hand, then back at the man nestled between the crates.

"How did you know that?"

"I know everything," Jehan grinned childishly and lulled his head to one side. "Jehan the all-knowing. Sounds perfectly accurate to me,"

Combeferre couldn't help but smile in return. "It must be so. What else do you know, then, mon ami? Tell me so that I may be all the wiser,"

Jehan sucked in a breath. "I know lots of things. I know that Eponine is only here for Marius' sake. I know that Joly is sensitive to disease, but he'd rather handle it than cower away from it. I know that Bahorel is lonely and Bossuet likes to put honey in his wine to make it sweeter. I know that Grantaire believes in all the wrong things, but Enjolras still wants him. And I know they will most likely never tell each other. And I know that tomorrow is far too close to tonight. And I know that tonight is far too surreal to make sense,"

Combeferre nodded slowly. He seemed to mull over his knew knowledge for a bit before voicing "You really think he loves him back?"

"I do," Jehan affirmed, glancing back over to the drunkard. The two of them watched as Grantaire set his bottle down and stepped forward, as if to speak to Enjolras, but stepped back again before saying anything. He picked up his bottle and took a harsh swig of the drink, eyes squeezed tightly shut. And they watched as the leader glanced over at him for a second too long, hand gripping the barrel of a gun, then turned and walked into the shop they had cleared to be used as a storage area.

"Perhaps you are right. Grantaire will be so ecstatic," the guide offered.

"If he ever finds out,"

"I'm sure once all of this revolution business is over and done with, they will have plenty of time to acquaint each other with their feelings,"

Another lengthy silence ensued, as the response went unsaid but not unheard.

"Aren't you tired, 'Ferre?" Jehan drawled finally, feeling a new wave of exhaustion erupt throughout his head.

"Not particularly. Maybe it's the frigid air,"

"Yes, maybe," the poet mumbled, his words slurring together. He tilted his head back sleepily. "Do you want to hear something else that I know?"

Combeferre nodded. "Of course,"

"I know that you are the most intriguing man I have ever met, and I still cannot find the words to write about you,"

"Is that so?" Combeferre asked softly, his tone warm. Jehan could not bring himself to keep his eyes open, and instead allowed them to dip closed as he continued to speak without thinking.

"I thought perhaps I would find them before tonight. My last poem," He smiled to himself. "It's all very dramatic, don't you think?"

"Please don't speak as if tomorrow is your expiration date,"

"I will only speak what I know. It may as well be etched into my skin,"

Combeferre frowned and turned so that he was facing the other, who still did not open his eyes. "I have faith that you will live, mon poete,"

At that, Jehan cracked a soft smile, which revealed the slightest of dimples in his cheeks. "Your poet," he repeated. "If only, if only, my dear,"

"You should sleep, Jehan. Rest for tomorrow," Combeferre stood. He looked down at the man for a while, the pipe still smoking in his hand. Jean felt the shift in mood and used what little strength he could muster to drag open his eyes. They watched the guide blearily.

"I will look upon his heart with adoration, hold it in my hands until it is forced from me. I will let it beat against my chest in the hopes that one day, it may lace itself into my veins and persist. Even the surest of men can fall victim to circumstance, as even I, can love a soul who has not learned to take,"

Combeferre blinked down at him, lips parted in awe. Jehan smiled sloppily and gave a short nod. "I think that was it. I think that was the poem I was trying to write about you. And now I have,"

The guide grasped for words desperately. He had just opened his mouth to reply when a sharp yell came from atop the barricade.

"They're here! Arm yourselves! Arm yourselves!" Courfeyrac stormed, cocking his gun as Enjolras raced up the stacked furniture to join him. Quite instantly, students began scattering about the camp. Bottles crashed and wood was knocked over as the frantic buzz grew. Combeferre's head snapped at the sound. Jehan's eyes flew open wide. He pushed himself from the wreckage and gave the other one last, fleeting glance before slipping into the swarm of people. The guide looked after him helplessly.

A moment later, a gunshot fired and panic heightened even more. The National Guard stood relatively close to their barricade. Each face was hard and each gun pointed. After Jean retrieved a weapon of his own, he scurried to the side of the makeshift wall and aimed. Within seconds, the single gunshot had erupted into the sounds of canons and repeated fires. Men were shouting, falling, and stumbling from both sides of the fight. There was no room for thinking or feeling, simply bleeding and forcing blood upon others. The battle did not die down for another twenty minutes, which could just as easily have been twenty hours.

Combeferre found Enjolras before he found Jean.

"You're alright!" the leader exclaimed, relief clear in his eyes. Courfeyrac joined the two of them, frantically rambling about the whole of it. The guide clenched his fists together tightly as he searched the crowds, only half listening to the report.

"Where's Prouvaire?" he asked bluntly, once he was sure he could not locate him. Courfeyrac blinked at him, mouth open in mid-sentence. He closed it and swept his eyes about the camp, as did Enjolras.

"He may be among the wounded," Courfeyrac offered, wasting no time in entering the Corinthe and searching the bodies laid about on sagging mattresses. None of the faces were familiar.

"Perhaps the dead—" Enjolras started.

Combeferre clenched his jaw. "He can't be,"

Enjolras held his gaze a minute before nodding silently, but continued to scan the growing collection of corpses lined up against the walls. He was unsure if it came as a relief to not find him there, either.

Combeferre felt his stomach twist into knots. "Then he is hostage,"

The two others looked taken aback, but soon relaxed into horrified understanding.

"We've their officer, and they've our poet. We'll trade," the guide said firmly, already reaching for the tied up inspector that they had caught earlier that day.

"I want him dead—" Enjolras demanded.

"And I want Jean alive," he spat. The others were not used to such behavior from the man, and seemed too stunned to argue. "I'll tie the flag and retrieve him," He moved to find a pole of wood and a red cloth, feeling for all the world like he could not tie it fast enough. He had just fastened it and pulled the inspector from his restraints when an unmistakable cry came from the other side of the barricade.

"_Vive la France! Long live France! Long live the future!_"

And Combeferre thought it was perhaps the most beautiful collection of words he had ever allowed entry into his head, the passion laid heavily in every syllable. He stopped, heart racing and grip clenching, wishing that what he knew would come next was just an idea, nothing more. But the idea was loud. And it blasted through the night with such prevalence, he knew it was heard in every corner of the world. And he knew that it was over, even after he couldn't believe it had begun.

Combeferre slumped down into the wreckage, dropping the flag and the ties of the officer. He held his hands to his face, the echo of the gunshot still ringing in his ears as he tried, and failed, to breathe.

It was true. Jean Prouvaire knew a great many things. He knew that Eponine was only there for Marius. And he knew that Joly was sensitive to disease, but he'd rather handle it than cower away from it. And he knew that Bahorel was lonely and that Bossuet liked to put honey in his wine to make it sweeter. And he knew that Grantaire believed in all the wrong things, but Enjolras wanted him anyway. And he knew that they would most likely never tell each other. And he knew that Combeferre was beautiful, but hopelessly oblivious and desperately kind.

Combeferre did not know as many things as Jean Prouvaire did. But of this, he was absolutely sure: Jehan was a warrior. And he had loved him from the first.


End file.
